


two of a kind

by woodenduck



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 00:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6881587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodenduck/pseuds/woodenduck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after both the Bitter Springs quest and killing Caesar.  My Courier 6 is an escaped Legion slave soldier, for some context.</p>
            </blockquote>





	two of a kind

  


“Sure you don’t wanna buy anything else? We just got in a whole fuckload of guns, can’t tell you where from, but they’ve got those scopes on ‘em that you’re crazy about.”

“Just the six pack is fine,” Cato says, with a somewhat forced smile as he lays his caps down in front of the shopkeeper, “Thanks Ralph.” With a shrug, Ralph halfheartedly counts the caps before sweeping them into a jar and pushing the case of beer across the counter.

“You take care, kid,” Ralph mutters around a mouthful of cigarette after Cato, who had turned and was already headed outside, cradling the case in his arms.

“Oh, yeah, you too,” he says with a nod and a lazy two-finger salute before pushing his way through the door. He feels somewhat guilty about the interaction once he’s out on the street headed back towards the Lucky 38, but his mind is somewhere else. 

It had been about a week now since the night in Bitter Springs.

Cato had hoped that the trip would afford Boone some much needed peace, but in the days that followed he seemed to become even more tense and closed off than before, like he had regressed back to the day Cato had wandered out onto the sniper’s perch in Novac. Feeling this close to him only to be pushed away had been immensely painful, especially when Cato could tell that, for all his brusqueness, Boone didn’t actually want to be left alone.

Cato’s heart is in his throat as he knocks on the open door to Boone’s room, beer in hand.

“Hey, it’s me,” Cato announces.

“Hey,” comes Boone’s voice, and Cato sticks his head far enough into the room to see him sitting on his bed, legs criss-crossed and chin resting in his hands.

“Can I come in?” he asks, “I’ve got...this.” Boone nods, and Cato begins to head for a chair in the corner of the room. However, to his surprise, Boone uncrosses his legs and scoots a foot over, making room on the bed next to him. Cato swallows dryly before tentatively taking a seat.

“I’ve...been wanting to talk to you,” he starts, distracting himself by taking two bottles out of the carton and cracking them open, “I thought the beer might help.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Boone’s lips purse into something almost like a smile.

“Kind of wanted to talk to you too, actually,” he grunts, before eagerly downing a fair amount of the bottle Cato hands him, “But drinking doesn’t hurt.” Cato sighs heavily, feeling some of the tension in his gut fade at the admission that Boone wants him there. He takes a long swig, hoping to rid his mouth of some of its dryness before continuing.

“I just wanted to know how you were doing, after...everything,” Cato says, scratching at the stubble on his neck, “I mean...did it help? To go back there?” Boone shrugs, and he stares silently at the bottle in his hands for a moment before speaking.

“I dunno,” he mumbles, “Did going back help you?”

“Back...to Bitter Springs?” Cato repeats, confused. Boone shakes his head.

“Caesar’s camp,” he says, “Freeing those slaves, killing him and his men. Did it help?”

The mention of Caesar no longer fills Cato’s veins with ice, but the question still gives him a jolt. He’d gone with Boone across the river expecting it to be the last boat ride he’d ever take, having decided long before the trek to the docks that he wasn’t going to be a part of any peaceful dealings with his former slaveholders. In his wildest dreams he’d never expected his decision to stop running from his past to end in anything but his death, and he’d been ready for that. Instead, he’d stuck a knife through Caesar’s chest while Boone and Rex held off the rest of his men, and left with the platinum chip in hand to boot.

“I guess I don’t know yet,” he replies, biting his lip, “I think it was good, but...I still need to think.” For a moment, Boone looks at him with more understanding in his expression than Cato has ever felt from anyone, before averting his eyes and nodding at his lap.

“Yeah,” he says, “Guess that’s about where I am, too.” A long silence follows, which Boone only breaks when he finishes his drink.

“You’re always looking out for me,” he says abruptly, “Carla did too. I used to think you shouldn’t. Now, I don’t know.” Feeling his heart clench a little in his chest, Cato opens his mouth, searching for a response.

“What was she like?” he asks, tentatively. Boone’s expression hardens, and for a moment Cato thinks he’s going to shut him down the way he had before, but he doesn’t.

“I met Carla while I was at the Strip on leave,” he starts, rubbing his brow, “She said I looked lost. She talked a lot. Suited me fine - I never know what to say. And listening to her, it could... make you forget. She stuck out, pretty much everywhere we went. Like she was from a different time. A better time. I’d never met anyone like her.” His brow is heavily furrowed now, and he turns himself towards Cato without looking him in the eyes.

“You’re not like her, but you...remind me of her,” he mutters, “She had a way of making you forget, but you...you make me remember everything.”

“I’m sorry,” Cato says, nearly choking on the words, but Boone reaches out and rests a hand on his shoulder.  


“No,” he says, and when he finally gives Cato the eye contact he’s been avoiding, he looks torn open and vulnerable, all pretense of guardedness cast aside, “Not like that. I mean...don’t need to forget anymore.” Hand trembling slightly, Cato reaches up, cupping Boone’s cheek, and when Boone leans into it a warmth spreads through Cato’s body that he can’t attribute to his alcohol induced buzz.

“Damn it,” Boone swears softly, bringing a hand up to rest on the one Cato has on his face, “Damn it, Cato, I’m running out of reasons not to let myself have this.”

“Maybe there aren’t any,” Cato croaks, and it comes out as a laugh despite the hot tears that prick in the corners of his eyes, and before he can form another word Boone’s mouth is on his, his gentle kisses becoming more urgent the moment Cato returns them. He’s sloppy and out of practice but it’s the last thing on Cato’s mind as they both tug and pull at each other, both desperate to close every inch of the space between them. Boone’s hot breath is still on his face when they break apart, and he’s still clutching his face desperately in his hands.

“I think I’ve wanted that for a long time,” Boone huffs, dragging his hand slowly down Cato’s chest and back up again, his eyes following his hand’s movement with something like wonder.

“I know I have,” Cato responds breathlessly, and with that their lips are locked together again, and they fall tangled together onto the bed again, clinging tight together as if each of them is the last thing left in each other’s worlds


End file.
